Knotted Strings
by charley.vandra
Summary: Sherlock's arrogance heightens immensely (if possible, steadily more so) upon offering violin lessons via John's bet he has no humility, patience, and/or a kind bone in his body. Sherlock readily accepts his challenge, however he never anticipated falling for one of his students. Sherlock/OC
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fanfiction using the realm and its characters of Sherlock, which was created Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss based upon the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes detective stories. I claimed nothing but my original characters.

**Author's Note: **This is a plot bunny that has been swirling around in my mind that I've been wanting to write and finally now have some time to do so! Whoot! Professor Holmes! Read, enjoy, where will this lead? I don't know, either ;)**  
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Prologue

Sherlock Holmes' POV

When I would instruct the girl to play the instrument, I'd stand by the window thoughtfully gazing out the window as I'd listen attentively to the sound erupting from the girl's slender fingers. However, my mind was curiously preoccupied, wondering heedlessly around the verbally 'rabbit hole.' Procuring an allowance for any logical explanation, I could not fathom my sudden infatuation upon this . . . this girl? Then again, upon further speculation, obsession was normality and shouldn't be dismissed as unusual mentality.

I mentally shrug with indifference and returned my attention to the . . . silence? My brows furrow together upon the realization the girl had ceased playing. Fury arose inside me at the girl's insolence and, pivoting on my heels in a quick turn, addressed the girl immediately.

"Unless I've gone deaf within the last briefest of moments—of which is a highly unlikely scenario and as I am hearing myself speak, didn't happen. Thusly, I suggest you return to the prescribed lesson I instructed you to play."

She gazed up over her violin at me, momentarily inflicted with discontent before her eyes stilled and no longer elicited emotion. She appeared sadden by the fact that I reprehended her for the simplest of digressions. Her eyes flickered down to her hands resting in her lap before she returned them to the strings. Once again hearing the gentle music engulf the room, I turned back to the window. However concentration did not find me as my mind began to wonder again.

_Blasted girl, _I cursed underneath my breath. With frustration steadily seeping into my bones, I quickly dismissed the continuation of the girl's playing—without giving the decency to confront her directly; I continued gazing out the window with my hands neatly folded behind my back.

"A headache far too significant than the importance your lesson has deprived me from listening to another beat."

I could hear her bumbling underneath her breath in confusion. I was also quick to silence yet another infuriating quality she seemingly was fond of eliciting.

"Cease before you clumsily bite your tongue. Now shoo, you silly little thing. I insist you be more readily prepared for next weeks session. "

"But—"

"What have you so stupidly misheard?" I said, finally turning to the girl and, finding her risen from the seat, obtained a greater temper. "I will not repeat myself, Miss Whitmore."

I watched her mouth snap closed, struggling with the rising impulse to retaliate against me; however, she managed to abed those dastardly desires and swallow her pride. A brief moment of admiration welled-up inside me for the girl's self-control over herself. _It was indeed, admirable; _consequently, faulting in yet _more_ thought-provoking images of the girl standing before me.

_Why was I becoming plagued with inappropriate thoughts of one of my students? _This constant affliction made me despise the girl even more. How had this girl come to hold power over me? It was wholly disconcerting. I was a once a concreted and steady man. And now, this girl had turned me into putty? Where had my self-control gone off to?

"Why do you hate me so much?"

The small, mousy voice delivered me away from my thoughts and brought my attention to the figure standing within inches of my person. Despite the gentle demeanor she usually displayed, Ms. Whitmore stood her ground and implemented such persistent I couldn't help but answer her.

I enclosed the gap that separated our bodies, strangely delighting in the slight quiver in the girl's bottom lip. The blush that arose over her cheeks procured this kind-of deep swell in my lower abdominal that I often did not feel. My control was slipping, and that notation frightened me.

"Hatred is not a characteristic I would readily describe my . . . feelings upon you, Ms. Whitmore. . . . Rather the contrary, I've unfortunately come to discover. . . . What have I become because of you, is the question."


	2. The Bet

Chapter 1: The Bet

Sherlock Holmes' POV

_Autumn was upon us_, I thought gazing out the window, and mentally cringed. John will be insufferable—what with his unfortunate innate droning about cold weather chapping. Realizing I would be unable to change the forthcoming present of despair, I sighed and changed the focal point of my concentration; however, a sudden croaking sound from beyond aroused my attention, and speculating from the wheezing breathing, visually envisioned Mrs. Hudson attempting to sneak inside, undetected.

"Misses Hudson, do shut the door; John is being insufferable again about the weather."

The loud groan that boomed from behind my person made me internally smile, and of which sustained into a set of inaudible curses that continued all the way into the kitchen. _Rattling the old bird's cage was much too easy for my liking_, I thought, attempting to settle my attention onto something entirely more interesting. However, a shrill whine from the sofa chair parted me from my thoughts.

"Me? The insufferable one?" John was quick to retort with a forced chuckle. "Sherlock you know I have sensitive skin and lips. I chap easily."

I groaned, "dull and irrelevant," and continued to gaze out the window, my hands squeezing tighter around the book behind my back, seeking comfort within the confines of the pages.

"Of course," John spat with disdain; "Everything is _irrelevant_ to you unless it's pinching you in the arse."

John's unusual speech inflicted a slighted perplexity in me and, with a raised brow, turned my face to inquire about the man's irrational outburst. Upon meeting my gaze, he sighed heavily and shook his head.

"O! Never mind. It's like trying to convince Buckingham Place it's just a building, made of the same brick and mortar like the rest, but what's it's point in return, eh? That it upholds importance. But I know the truth. That'll blow away like the rest despite it's oh so grand importance. . . . _Git_."

"O, what are you going on about now? You seem rather frustrated—tense. When's the last time you wanked one off?" The sudden gasp uttered from Mrs. Hudson did not stop my outburst of indecency. "Perhaps, you should get your laptop and how did Anderson put in? Ah, yes, 'bash your bishop.' "

I excepted return fire however John's face stilled. "I need air," he simply said, and left.

"Sherlock," cried Mrs. Hudson and watched John storm from the flat. "Such vulgarity isn't appropriate."

Becoming aware of the fact that I was about to hear another idiotic reprehension, I quickly silenced the woman. " 'Above all, I dislike vulgarity.' However, honesty is where I set my sails, Mrs. Hudson. And if you don't appreciate that, then find another boat to weigh down your anchor." She grumbled something underneath her breath again, and at last, I was left to my sanctuary.

**.**

John returned later that evening in a relatively better mood; consequently, my curiosity was keen to establish the motive behind his happiness—and of which attempt resulted in another verbal harassment of the word, 'asre.' I didn't understand John's sudden infatuation with the word, and sought to shred light upon the mystery. However he simply shook his head and retreated to his room without another exchange in pleasantries.

The extreme irritability of John Watson perplexed me, and continued to displace my thoughts well into the night until he returned to personally greet me.

"Sherlock? If you were a robot—sent to this Earth to plague me—you'd tell me, right?"

The man's gravity upon this inquiry about my person offended me. In spite of this, my want to shift the pivot point of this conversation was great.

"Have you tapped into Mrs. Hudson's secret stash, again? She believes we are not aware, but—" and looking directionally at John, continued, "_obviously." _

Unfortunately to my dismay, he saw through my diversion. "Don't change the subject, Sherlock. We are talking about you now. What's wrong with you?"

"Wrong?" I repeated incredulously; "I wasn't aware there _was_ anything of notable concern."

"Stop trying to be so bloody-well clever all the time."

"Can't keep up?"

"Sherlock!"

"John."

The climax of our discussion apparently had been building since this morning, and was about to peak.

"You _are_ a robot, aren't you!?" he cried.

"I thought we had already disproved that theory?"

"No, no, _no_, no, no, no. No you haven't. You haven't the humility, t-the p-patience, or a kind bone in your body to be human."

I sighed again. I was tiring easily from this bumbling verbal joust, and direly wished to end it as quickly as possible.

"What do you require of me to end this stupidity?"

I watched John quickly scan the room, apparently looking for something. When his eyes stilled upon an object beside me, I followed his line of vision that rested on . . . my violin? Several explanations flooded my mind of possible scenarios John was concocting, however the likeliest was frightening.

"Dear God, John—if there was one—no!"

"Yes. Teaching. Sherlock. Yes."

"No, I do not accept," I refused and turned my back to him.

"Then surrender to me and admit you're a robot?"

The insufferable man allowed several moments of silence to pass to allow me to contemplate his offer. _His offer, _I repeated in contempt. _Thinking I am a robot? Just more idiocy_. Despite the irrationality of the man's challenge, admitting defeat was not in my purview.

"Fine," I submitted; "but I get to hold auditions and select my students."

"Whatever rubs your Buddha."

My face screwed-up in bewilderment at yet another one of John's usual speech choices; however I did not remark on it and choice to ignore the humming man behind me. I cast my gaze outside the window, and mentally began preparing myself to the tedious task ahead.


	3. The Auditions

Chapter 2: The Auditions

Sherlock Holmes' POV

"Next!"

The day had been filled with more stupidity and incompetence than I could mentally tolerate—what with John gloating in the corner and the many insufferable dimwits that had audition—my patience was wearing dangerously thin. The burden of inferiority was bearing down upon my neck and giving me a severe headache. How much more I _could _tolerate was unknown, though I anticipated a swift end to this madness.

"Why on Earth anyone would want _violin_ lessons from Sherlock Holmes still puzzles me," John began in amazement, and repeated often. "_Violin_ lessons! You can barley play, yourself."

I continued to endure through many of John's wise cracks, but nevertheless I was not one to surrender. Thusly, I interrogated interviewees who applied for one of my four positions and thusly turned down many. Many of whom—those that I had declined—withdrew to verbal abuses to reconcile their outrage and offensive, and of which I regrettably endured through—without dialogue—just in spite the now crooning and smirking man in the corner. _His satisfaction will not be met_, I thought, quickly ushering out a mad woman with intriguingly long finger nails. John's smirk was not tolerable, either.

"I also don't understand why _anyone_ would want to be criticized and scrutinized by the _infamous_ Sherlock Holmes—and I don't mean infamous as in 'notorious' I mean infamous as in 'villainous.' "

I internally rolled my eyes, but let slip his comment. However I did address the nature of his question.

"In the eyes of English society, I am a God. I don't see why they _wouldn't_ want me as their mentor. They're rather fortunate they're getting me for _free_—and how did that come about _exactly? _"

"Mentor?" repeated John in bewilderment, and crumpled his newspaper over his lap to cast his glare at me. "What's this business about a mentor?"

I sighed; the man's nonexistent ability to comprehend things without the need to have it explained to him directly was exhausting. How difficult was it to understand my reference to a mentor and mentee relationship? Also he neglected to answer my inquiry about why I was offering this service without installation.

"Mentorship," I said with instruction. "Along with teaching . . . these heathens, I intend to cradle one underneath my wing and mentor them into succession."

"Cradle? Into succession? Sherlock, are you hearing yourself? They've come for _violin _lessons, not Sherlock's life lessons 101."

"It's an added bonus."

John scoffed; however, he did not sustain his argument any further and retreated back to his newspaper. Although he did continue under his breath, "More like an endless capital punishment, if you asked me"

**.**

"Mrs. Hudson send up the next applicant."

"I'm not your secretary; get your own _app-lee-cunt." _

Nightfall had cast it's rays onto the windows, shrouding darkness into the flat. Mrs. Hudson, groggy, yawned, and returned to her own flat below. John was becoming antsy as well.

"Sherlock how many more people are to you see? It's getting late, and I want to shut up the flat."

"As many as it takes," I enforced, implying an discrete 'this was your idea' expression. John sighed, rolled her eyes, and went back to his laptop. He knew he would never win another argument until our challenge was concluded, and he was correct in assuming so.

I mentally sighed again; even I was becoming worn out with the day's toil and sought the confinements of my bed. My lids flickered heavily and strained against the fine print on the clipboard. From the blurred lines, I concluded only one applicant was left, 'Misses Emma Whitmore,' and she was late. I sneered. First impression were my forte and I did not appreciate to be kept waiting.

The floor boards beyond our door suddenly elicited creaks and croaks; realizing a body resided on the other side and calculating the amount of sound emitted from the estimation of weight I assumed a young woman would display, I deduced it was none other than Miss Whitmore. My aggravation was already high and rising, but the sets knocks that followed elevated it considerably. This young woman was doomed.

"Just come in," I sprouted loudly, accounting for the separation divider of the door, and also, I had no longer the 'humility'— as John said—to fake humility any longer. Miss Whitmore was going to be the unfortunate victim—as John put it—of another one of my deductions. And having refrained from deducing all day, my mind was buzzing with anticipation.

The assumed Miss Emma Whitmore pushed the door open, letting it swing on the hinges, and remained stilled in the frame, hesitant of whether to proceed or not. This moment of uncertainty she displayed was quite frankly off-putting, and I desired to quickly cease it.

"Well come in you silly little thing. My time is precious."

She nodded steadily and rushed herself across the threshold immediately, awkwardly coming to halt and fidgeting as the silence enclosed the room. She rested her violin case on the floor and leaned it against her leg. I remained seated in my chair, finger tips pressed together before my face, and prepared my vision for evaluation.

_White blouse and black trousers; suggest sectarian position. However, messy hair and black flat shoes contradict design. Dressed for comfort then. Probably works on her feet. Simplicity implies seclusion. Recyclable without attachment. She does not dress for impression. Lip stick is faded; she has just come from work . . . as a waitress. The food stains on her sleeves implies she carries plates on her forearms, easily smearing on her clothes. Hard worker? Yes, bags underneath eyes says she has not been sleeping. Two jobs? Most likely. Her violin looks previously owned, what with the multiple leather tears and worn corners, it was old. Not rich. Verdict? Emma Whitmore is dull. _

"That's it. I have everything I need. Expect a call within 3-5 days. You can pickup a souvenir pamphlet on the way out. Oh, and be a dear and shut the door behind you, or else John will start up again."

"Sherlock!" I heard from the corner. I turned my attention from the girl to John. He was leering over his laptop at me again. Apparently, he meant to convey his disappointment and nodded me to the girl to say something else. What did he want to say?

"I'm not a mind reader, John. As much as I know you're reading erotic fiction right now, I am not aware of what you want me to say."

"Sherlock!" he cried. "Not in front of guests. Besides how did you know—not that I was."

"Your left brows raises when you're aroused—"

"Sorry. Hello," John said, clearing his throat and ignored me. He stood and addressed the blinking woman. "I'm John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you."

She smiled kindly at John. _Forced smile. She is uncomfortable, but tries to convey reassurance for the sake of John's embarrassment. The woman's considerate of others. John's blushing. He likes this woman. Extended verdict? This woman is still dull and John is ineffectively shielding an erection. _

"Emma," she replied, and accepted John's hand. _Her eyes are not leaving his. She is aware of John's erection. This makes her nervous. She is inexperienced. Virgin? Unlikely. _"Whitmore. It's nice to meet you John."

"Emma? you say. You're one of Sherlock's last appointments."

"_The_ last," I corrected John, and of which made Miss Whitmore turn to me in relief.

"I'll let you two get on with it then," John cleared his throat again, and vacated the room quickly.

The hasty disappearance of John was not lost on this woman, and she began to blush. _Scratch my prior deduction. Definite virgin. Her folded hands suggest she's trying to suppress a nervous trembling, and she continues to slip her bottom lip into mouth. She's embarrasses easily. Not a likely candidacy for my mentorship. _

She looked up at me, excepting me to begin the interview; however, my first conclusion to this woman's status remained unchanged. I had no additional inquiries to obtain and certainly was not interested in further examining this girl. _Probably no more than 23. _Content with my decision, I remained silent and refrained from further interacting with her. However, she unfortunately remained standing, waiting. Waiting for what? I thought. I had dispensed of her earlier. There was no more to be said.

"You may leave now."

She appeared taken back, but it wasn't my fault she could not comprehend the simplest of feats. She was seemingly adamant to see a headache erupt from her audibly bumbling.

"But I haven't even auditioned yet."

I groan. "American."

The easily offended and remorseful expression that sweep across her face

cemented my verdict of this girl. _Shy. Easily rattled. Doesn't have a voice of authority. A pushover. Probably guidable. _To evaluate Miss Whitmore

any longer, would delay our separation, and I was bored.

"The door's over there. Shut it on the way out, will you," I repeated, and turned away from the girl. I came to the window again and cast my gaze out, hoping for some inspiration to exchange my current frame of mind. I wanted to become lost within the stars; however, Ms. Whitmore was adamant to plague.

"What do you have against Americans?"

I physically sighed this time. Desiring a swift end to this sad pup, I quickly turned around and addressed this problem head-on.

"Absurd. Overbearing. Blindly ignorant. Ill bred government. An insidious infatuation with fast food, and conversely, the waist line of a woman. Indulgence. Materialism. And Justin Bee-ber. The list. Is endless."

Her response quite surprised me. Excepting nothing short of tears, instead she replied quite calmly.

"Let me see your teeth."

I did not answer. Immediately recognizing her attempt to rationalize my opinion, I had not the energy to listen. I had more important matters to attend than listen to his girl, try and diminish my opinion. However, she tried.

"To prove your allegations correct, then first we must conclude that all stereotypes of popular nationalities are indeed, _correct. _And British people, I've heard are quite infamous for their yellow teeth, sir. If you so indeed have yellow teeth, sir, I am perfectly willing to admit, we, Americans are what you say we are. . . . However, seeing as I have stunted you speechless, I am going to guess that I am correct and my opposition is valid."

_Sassy little minx. Verdict changed. Change shy to predatorily quiet. Were my deductions incorrect? Impossible. However time would be needed to establish and fix my mistake. _

"Congratulations. You've earn your place of one of four."

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**Author's Note: **As long as I know someone's enjoying the story, this boat will sail. Thank you for reviewing/alert the story ;)


	4. The Exception

Chapter 3: The Exception

Sherlock Holmes' POV

"_Congratulations. You've earned your place of one of four." _

With glittering orbs, the young woman filled with delight; the sensation of 'good news' too immense to suppress_. The purity of this woman's ordinary, unadorned arousal is a sight seldom witnessed—or as I suspect. The shy creature often represses her natural intuition, and behaves accordingly—to that of society's wishes. She is a being confined—a prisoner, bound wholly by her fears. Yet, and on the contrary, _as I settle my gaze at the present young woman, _my former assessment of her dilutes itself in the very (quieting) pleasure she elicits. _

What a beautiful thing she was, gushing over this simple report I had given her. She's trying—against her natural temperament—to bed her excitement. She's trying to calm herself. _What with the pressing of her lower lip between her teeth, inadequately trying to suppress her glee, and the coloring of her cheeks, I couldn't help but make the obvious deduction she's—unfortunately to my annoyance—overjoyed to be accepted into my company. _

My head rotated slightly to the side, quickly recapturing my previous thoughts. _What a beautiful thing she was? _I mentally repeated, my feature screwing-up in confusion. I did not spend another moment of my time wasting with this thought. I quickly dismiss the theory behind it, concluding the lateness of the hour was the result of such non-sense thinking.

"Alright, off with you. I haven't another moment to spare."

"But we haven't discussed the times of my lessons yet," she said, then flushed at her sudden bold outburst, retailing against mine. "I mean, I may need a flexible schedule … due to my work. I work the day shifts, so will night lessons be alright?"

I scowled, _such triviality! _Night lessons!? The seclusion that night offered me was indisputable. I would not waste such precious time on some … some girl!? … Yet, the bet I made with John flashed in my mind. _Blasted idiot. Blasted girl! _When would I awake from this nightmare?

"I don't often, actually never, make exceptions. Not for anyone, but—"

"John?"

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Are you trying to imply something, Ms. Whitmore?"

"Well," she flushed again, sucking her lower lip between her teeth again. "Aren't you two … uh, partners?"

_What was this nonsense, _I thought with a fierce potency. My tolerance was quickly deteriorating. "Yes, what is your point?"

However before she could reply John decided this was opportune moment to interrupt and returned from his bedroom.

"Um, hello again," he said behind Ms. Whitmore. She twirled around, blushing. "So what's going on here? Has Sherlock finished his monotonous monologue yet?"

I droned and rolled my eyes. John was attempting to flirt, and no one, especially not I, wanted to be a witness. However, the young woman smiled and politely directed her attention to John, of whom began engaging my mentee. I didn't like that.

I cleared my throat and stepped between their bodies. "As I was saying, Ms. Whitmore. Know, I am so very unwillingly to make this exception, and accordingly, if you come to disappoint me _even_ once, there will be consequences. Understood?"

She appeared apprehensive, even confused as I continued to leer down at her. She glanced to John, of who offered her a small smile. She managed to timidly reply:

"Um, yes, I understand."

"Good," I said; "Now off you come go; quickly. John's left brow is raising and you know what _that_ means_. _We will discuss the terms of our future engagements in our first lesson. Now, off you silly thing; you're rowling the dog. _" _

John squealed. "Oye, I'm not a dog!"

Ms. Whitmore was blushing, and profusely if I added, as she nervously evaded our company, but not before saying 'good evening.' When the door was at last shut, I slumped down into the sofa, cherishing the way my muscles released and ached. My eyes were closed for no more than the briefest moments before John began poking and prodding my arm.

"Did she ask about me?" he said.

I sighed, although did not open my eyes, and replied carelessly, "She may have mentioned your name?"

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did she say?"

"About what?"

"Sherlock," John breathed out, his temper beginning to show. "Come on, just tell me what she said."

John's interest in my future mentee was wholly disconcerting. She was _my _mind to mold, _my_ body to shape, _my_ mentee to instruct! I couldn't risk John spoiling such a unsoiled talent. Within the few moments of silence after she left, I began to analyze the young woman's lack of experience and worldly knowledge as—as John's referred to it—a 'blessing in disguise.' I could teach her things beyond the limitations of music, beyond her purview, and beyond her wildest imaginations. She would become my ultimate challenge. She would be mine to conquer!

"Sherlock?"

John's voice materialized my surroundings and reintroduced reality into my sights. He was still standing there, hovering about wondering about Ms. Whitmore. Usually, when I would escape to my Mind Palace, he would often have the sense to leave me be, yet it seemed, Ms. Whitmore was obviously a more potent desire.

I mentally sighed. "I simply told her we were partners."

John's face whitened.

"In what context?" he quickly asked. His voice had risen an octave, and his feet began to dance.

"I simply stated that you were an exception. And for some unknown reason, she asked if you and I were partners. I replied yes."

"Oh Sherlock, now you're done it. Again! … Great. She's thinks I'm gay. Gay for you. Gay for Sherlock."

"Why would she think that?" I asked, however only seconds later I came to realize the distinct difference between detective partners and simply, partners.

"Gay for Sherlock?" he repeated incredulously, his mouth huffing and his hips puffing. _"Gay for Sherlock?" _

I sighed again. "Good night, John. Your anxiety is entirely ridiculous. Besides, you're not her type."

John tsked at me. "And what? You are?"

Our conversation terminated when John slipped his coat on and quickly evaded the flat. I sighed again; I didn't understand John's dependence on women and love. I've never depended on either, and look how happy I was. … Or could I objectively argue that I was indeed happy? This thought struck my interest and I returned to the sofa chair to further examine this question.

Was I? Or I was just content? If indeed, I was just content, what would I need to obtain to reach happiness? This question intrigued me well through the night, and long after John returned exhausted from the next morning.

Was she my exception?

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**Author's Notes: **

I just want to add that I am so thankful for everyone's reviews! I'm so giddy people are showing an interest for the story. Thanks!


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